


Monochrome

by AtomicSenpai



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom
Genre: Amnesia, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Guilt, I haven't decided yet, Multi, Murder, OOC, Other, Personal Canon, Proxy Life, Psychological Trauma, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, There might be other creepypasta, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-05-28 17:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15054449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicSenpai/pseuds/AtomicSenpai
Summary: { Reader Insert } Slate black and ivory white attire, dead milky eyes daring you with danger, wolfish grin full with hunger and an unearthly laughter, chilling to the bones. A lifetime seemed to pass by in a blur; he was the doting ghost at your side; always returning to the shadows. Stalking, hunting, always a few steps behind you.





	1. The Dead Zone

**Author's Note:**

> This is a x reader I have posted on my quotev and wattpad. I feel since I'm going to be writing it more often and I've been wanting to make a contribution to ao3 for awhile now, I want to release this. The pronouns for this reader is they/them as I'm trying to keep this open for both male & female readers.

Eyes wide open, all you could see was darkness. You looked around the vastness of the area, a hint of desperation in your gaze as you tried to find any other colors or signs of life. It felt as if the very essence of the place you lingered was put to order. No rustling, no skittering, no sound. All that existed within the fabric of time, space and the mere presence of reality no longer had a place to continue on. This foreboding niche in-between worlds; centrally located amongst heaven and hell, was where you currently were. You couldn't grasp as to why you'd been brought to a place as empty, as non-existent, as lonely.

Sitting cross-legged in the midst of the dark room, you found yourself carefully eying up the only thing within your grasp - an old Jack in the Box. You and the exquisitely carved bauble were two voyagers, lost to time on a plane you'd come to think of as 'the dead zone'. The rusted crank of  the aged bauble looked all to tempting to wind up and play out the tune. Anything to help escape the impenetrable obscurity of the room and absence of sound that followed.

Scooping up the box and cradling it in your arms, as if a young babe, you delicately traced your fingertips along the intricate designs. Silently wondering what kind of secrets it could tell if only it was able to speak.

Without warning the handle of the Jack in the box began to spin on its own accord. Playing a slow and eerie version of the childrens song, Pop Goes the Weasel.

All around the mulberry bush,

The monkey chased the weasel.

The monkey thought it was all in fun,

Pop! goes the weasel.

As the song came to a close, a dim halo of light began to grow brighter, helping paint the room a bland palette of white and black, monochrome. The sharpness of the shadows growing in contrast to the soothing illumination of light that penetrated the gloom. You heard a light ting from the box, noting the end of the rhyme. You expectantly turned around, hoping to be greeted with the painted smiling innocent face of a clown upon a porcelain dome. Yet what you saw was far from unblemished and much closer to nightmarish in comparison.

Sitting on a rusty old spring, playing out as some macabre final pedestal for the dead was a decapitated head. The features of it were that of a child, maybe eight. Blond hair stained crimson, sockets where youthful eyes once were now replaced by empty, soulless black pits, soft skin now wrinkled and decomposed. And her face; forever locked in a state of pure terror. But the most disturbing thing of all was the multicolored pieces of hard candy that spilled from her mouth. Muddled together with fragments of bone, blood and brain matter.

As you drank in the petrifying sight, recalling the face of someone you knew from a lifetime ago, a pair of long pair of snake like arms encased your body; dragging you backwards as you writhed and kicked; unable to cry out for help. You desperately tried to break away but everything seized when you felt the warmth of another body against yours. It was almost comforting, you though to yourself, save for the claws digging into your throat. Spilling a fountain of hot blood against your killer, his laughter droning in your ears. The last sound you ever heard.


	2. Phatasmagoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therapy isn't very fun & LJ is kind of a dick.

Day after day, year after year, you had found yourself in the presence of a number of different shrinks;  affirming to the same testimony; situated in the same leathery armchair as you lent a reluctant ear to their current findings. Branding you with more diagnosis's than you could possibly wish to name. From psychiatrists to therapists to psychologists and even psychotherapists. It was all the same to you.  
  
At first they suspected that it might have been early stages of dementia and alzheimer's, but as the report and notes behind your supposed 'hallucinations' thickened, so did the listing of apparent issues.  
  
\- psychosis  
  - narcolepsy  
       - schizophrenia  
  
Your first "professional" examination, aged 10, had brought forth speculations that you might have also had some kind of ocular migraine or unidentified walking form of sleep paralysis. It was to your mothers great relief when the doctors told her of what they suspected may have been the root of the dilemma. For the time being it was a preferable alternative in contrast to the alarming and daunting truth that her child was being stalked by a serial killer; something she couldn't bare to accept was reality.   
  
As you stared off into the distance; eyes glazed, full of indifference, you tried not to listen as the therapist interpreted what the problem was as usual.  
  
 **"...and that is why I purpose that this is just a phantasmagoria. A hallucination, to put it simply."** , The doctor explained,  **"I've noticed from your eh...extensive medical record that you've been having these as young as seven."**  
  
 **"Eight."** You corrected, interrupting the speech you knew was inevitable.  
  
 **"Pardon?"**  
  
"Eight. I've been having my hallucinations since I was eight years old. Or didn't you catch that when I told you everything?"  
  
"Oh. Eight. I apologize. Anyhow -"  
  
You tuned him out, letting everything he said go in one ear and directly out the other, just as he had done to you. The doctor in front of you was one of the most recent ones to claim they had the answer to your hallucinations. The monochrome clown from your constant nightmares weren't the cause of any mental illnesses, a figment of your mind, your own disturbing imagination going haywire or anything as trivial as that. He was real and he was well aware of the hell that he was putting you through.  
  
This had all started with a day back when you were eight years old. You couldn't recall much except for brief visions of blond hair colored crimson and puddles of blood covered candies. In a feeble attempt to protect yourself from being scarred for the remainder of your life, you had subconsciously forgotten the events. But you knew that they were still locked away within the depths of your mind. The truth of that day forever lost and muddled by the reports you'd read, the half-baked testimonies you gave and the stories you heard.

  
\-----

  
**"We had a good session today, (y/n)."** Said the doctor, patting you on the back.  
  
You shrugged him off and turned to look at him, blankly replying. **"Mhm."**  
  
He returned the stare with his own reassuring smile. **"We'll be scheduling an appointment within another month. Just to get a clear idea of how your new prescription is working. If it runs it's course then this should be the last one for a while. Does that sound any good?"**  
  
 _'Great. More crazy pills to pop.'_  
  
Still disinterested, you replied with another blunt. **"Sure."**  
  
Clapping his hands together in approval, he walked across the room in just a few long strides and beckoned you from the chair.  
  
 **"Then this concludes our session for today. (y/n), I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors and hope to see more positive results next month. See you next time, as always."**   Parting ways, he handed you a slip for a brand new prescription to deliver to your family doctor. One more prescription to add to the heap that you'd already scrapped in the garbage.  
  
Making your way down the long corridor, every person that happened upon you looked at you, sizing you up in their scrutinizing gaze like a freak of nature. Some kind of mental case ready to snap the instant someone so much as said a word or laid a finger on you.  
  
You hated your life. You had few friends. You hated the constant silent judgements that people riddled you with. You had a dead end job working minimum wage for a store that felt more like slave labor than an actual place of employment. Your days consisted of harboring yourself away in your room, waiting for the inevitable day that the monochrome clown would spirit you away. Take away what life he hadn't already claimed and leave you to rest in the eternal darkness that you knew only as death. An option that looked all to appeasing the more your life flitted into nothingness.  
  
Ever since graduating from high school this past summer, you thought that maybe life would turn around for you. But that was far from the truth. At the ripe age of 17 years old and turning 18 very soon, you spent more of your time inside waiting for your own departure from the world than going out and enjoying it like most others your age were. Yet the clown that plagued your life would have it no other way. He enjoyed toying with you. Appearing at the most unexpected times, always distant but yet so close.  
  
That was just how it was.


	3. The Candyman Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares, the general public and serial killers. Oh my.

_You wandered aimlessly through old yet familiar rooms and hallways, fixed in your mind as distant memories. A standing testament to days gone by. The coinciding feelings of sorrow and happiness blending together to create that all too familiar sensation of bittersweet nostalgia. You could see it in clarity now. The bleary imagery you had passed by as you drifted from place to place were various childhood memories, solidified as blurry silhouettes._

_Your first drawing, the one you proudly boasted._

_Your first toy, the one you had to bring with you everywhere._

_Your first vacation, the one with all the embarrassing photos your family just loves to tease you about._

_Your first day at school, the one day you couldn't recall clearly. Whether or not you despised or loved this day, will forever be an unsolved mystery._

_Your first ki-_

"Um.. excuse me? Are you open?"

Those words jerked you back into concentration, abruptly ending any train of thought. Raising a hand to your head now reeling with a massive head ache. You slowly nodded your head at the customer, harshly finding yourself brought back into a reality full of repetitive beeping noises, aisles of food and the repugnant smell of old produce and cleaner. 

"Hello, how're you today?" You asked in an overly-cheery voice, your customer service voice. As much as all your coworkers denied it, you all had one. That sweetly saturated slightly higher pitched version of your voice that lulled the oblivious sheep, also known as the general public, into believing that you cared about little Timmy's scraped knee, Shelly not getting her deli meat sliced thin enough or the fact that Gertrude can't shop here at 11 o'clock PM like she can in the next town over. Bitch.

As you went on with your day, the constant reminder of that nightmare nagged at the back of your mind. The dreams had stopped upon the eve of your 18th birthday. What was triggering these dream so suddenly? 

It had been a year since your last visit to therapist before you outright began to refuse treatment. They hadn't been helpful in the least and after years of attending you had gone from an apparent high-profile patient with a curious case file that they'd sworn to help and heal down to just another number lost in a myriad of others. No one listened, not one word was heard as it went in one ear and out the other. Throw some pills at it, numb the pain, ignore the problem, send them a bill, get paid, repeat. It was nearly unbearable. 

"Thanks! You have a good day!", You piped with a genuinely pleasant tone as one of your favorite customers you'd been conversing with turned to leave with their groceries in tow. 

"(Y/N)!"

Called a familiar voice as you turned to see a co-worker of yours signalling for you to get off register and swap out with her, "Time to go already? But I'm having a blast right now." 

"I mean, if you want to keep having fun and just send me the check when you're done, by all means." She joked, smirking. 

"I'll pass.", You signed out and walked past her to clock out while holding you're hand up in the air, "Tag out?" 

"Tag in."

"Knock them out." You replied, climbing the stairs to your locker to grab your belongings, eagerness apparent in your step. 

Today was a free-day all to yourself. No mother, no step-father, no step-brother, no anyone. Just you and your favorite videogame. The best and only kind of stress relief. Whether it be pulling terroristic shenanigans in GTA, finding your family in a post-apocalyptic world, playing those guilty pleasure VN's or partying up with randoms in a FPS, it was all fun. 

Spinning the numbers into your combination lock, you tug gently and open your locker. Inside is your cellphone, a pair of earbuds and a jacket. Pulling the hoodie over your head, pocketing the earbuds as you press the power button, you see your home-screen light up with two missed calls and a voicemail showing. Swiping up, you let out an audible sigh of annoyance as you see both of those calls were from your mother. 

_'Hey ( Y/N ), sorry I have to do this to you but work asked me to come in earlier to help cover a shift and I said yes. Soooooo.. I won't be able to give you a ride home before I go to work. There's no dinner at home either but I left a 20 on the counter for take out. Treat yourself. Phillip is sleeping over his friends house tonight. Ryan is working past midnight and I won't be home until 11. Don't get kidnapped, stranger danger. You got the rest. Love you, bye. '_

You found yourself slightly annoyed about the fact that you would basically have to run home in the rain. On the other hand though, free pizza. And between heaven and hell, pouring rain or massive floods, nothing would keep you from your one true love. With this new-found information in mind, you made your way down the stairs and towards the entrance of the store, bidding goodbye to your co-workers.  

It was nearly a straight shot home despite crossing an intersection and cutting through a park on the way there. 

Looking down at your cellphone again, it was a quarter past 5 PM with more than enough time to make it home. You slipped out the earbuds, plugged them in and chose a random song from your library, putting one in and leaving the other out just for the sake of keeping cautious of your surroundings. 

Once outside you noticed it was nothing more than a light drizzle, if anything but a few specks falling every few seconds. Confident in the notion that you wouldn't melt in the rain right away, you took on an even stride and found yourself absentmindedly getting lost in the music. Your feet were instinctively carrying you all the way home as if you'd done this a million times. 

As you made your way through the center of town the rain commenced to gradually pick up and began coming down in heavy waves.  _'Great.'_ Pulling your hood taut over your head and shoving your hands deep into your pockets, you picked up the pace. _'Nope, not stopping. Think of the pizza'_

However, a loud rumble of thunder and a streak of lightning tearing across the sky seized that stubborn chain of thought right in its tracks.

_'Alright, I might stop.. just until it slows down.'_

Considering your limited options at the moment you chose to jog a bit down the road to see what was close by. Your feet splashed through large puddles and you found your hoodie soon clinging to your frame as it was drenched. 

Up on your right was a family owned restaurant with great food you frequented when feeling frivolous with your money. _'That's about as good as it's going to get right now.'_

Heading up to the door, you pushed it with more force than you meant to and nearly spilled inside, the loud entry bell chiming incessantly. A few patrons looked up from their seats before turning back to mind their own business. An employee who had been cleaning the front end turned his attention to you, putting the broom to the side. 

"Hello there, can I get you a table for 1 then?"

You looked at the employee, shivering, "N-no. Just waiting out the rain if that's okay." 

Noticing your current state, the man smiled sympathetically and nodded, "No problem, it's slow enough right now so you could probably take one of our booths by the window if you'd like."

"I appreciate it." You sat down at one of the wooden booths and settled in, the employee tailing you. 

"Sure I can't get you anything?" Asked the employee, pulling out a notepad. 

Feeling slightly pressured, you agreed, "Yeah, sure. Do you have ( F/D )?" 

Piping up, the employee jotted down the drink, "We sure do! Anything else?" 

"That's it for now. Thanks." You smiled just as he ran off to retrieve your drink and attend to other patrons. 

Pulling out your phone, you stopped playing your music, put your earbuds back into your pocket and starting messing around on your phone. Eventually you got so lost in social media drama, dank memes and cute pictures of dogs that you didn't even notice that the waiter had dropped off your drink. Taking a sip and growing bored with your phone, you turned your attention to the television playing the local news. 

"-and that's it for our sports section. Onto our news at 6!", Said the overly enthusiastic reporter as it cut to his colleagues who wore surprisingly somber looks upon their normally pleasant faces. The two anchors, Joe and Trisha, exchanged genuine looks of discomfort with each other as they straightened out their notes and took a sip of water. 

"Police in a small town are living in fear tonight as they are waiting for a break in the case of a serial killer back from the dead and on the loose. Better known as the _'Candyman Killer'._ 4 children have been found brutally dismembered and 2 more children are still missing. We have our reporter Diane on the scene now." 

Your attention is completely drawn into the TV. Your town was never mentioned on the news for little more than petty theft or organized drugs busts but now a serial killer?! The screen switches from the anchors as it zooms in on a street you recognize instantly, it being little more than five blocks from your own. The reporter stood in front of a weathered looking home with an equally weathered looking family standing behind her, a father and mother holding a crumbled picture of their presumed child. The picture flashed on the screen briefly. It was a photo of two little boys who both looked rather young hugging a dog by a Christmas tree wearing reindeer antlers, one wearing a rather toothless grin while the other seemed distracted by the unwrapped gifts off screen.

"-I'm here with the Goldman family this evening. It's been nearly a week since the disappearance of their two sweet boys, Liam and Elijah. Mr & Mrs Goodman here are appealing to the public for their help. The family says they can't imagine who would want to hurt or take their children. Tonight they're speaking out and pleading with their captor to please return the kids and drop them off in a safe location.", It briefly cuts to the family pictured behind. The mother is the first one to speak, her voice instantly cracking, "We just want our boys back. Please bring them back to us safely. We'll do whatever you want us to, just please, please return our boys. They're innocent-" 

The interview eventually cuts away as the mother is reduced to tears, her husband doing his best to remain composed. You find the footage unbearable to watch anymore as you're reduced to a shivering, paranoid wreck.

_'The Candyman Killer.'_ A lump of indescribable apprehension welled in the pit of your stomach. You tried your best to remain calm but soon found your heart racing and it hard to concentrate on anything. That dreaded clown that stalked you, hunted you and toyed with you was back. The local newspapers had dubbed him the 'Candyman Killer' during his random killing sprees when he would stick around for far longer than he was welcome. Silently, you prayed it was a copycat. You prayed it was just another sick twisted individual who had an eye for killing children and stuffing them with candy. Anything but the alternative.


	4. Old friends aren't always gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Jacky!

_Pit, pat, pit, pat, pit, pat_

Pouring rain was still falling hard as you made your way out of the diner. In the mess of it all you had completely forgotten to pay for your drink. _'Put it on my tab.'_ You were panicked and desperate to get home even if it meant drowning in the rain or struck by lightning. These were no ordinary circumstances. A serial killer was on the loose who just also happened to have a _very_  personal vendetta against you. What were the odds?

Taking a hard right down a side street, you shoved both hands into your pockets and picked up the pace. Passing by a grand looking church neighbored with rows of equally grand looking colonial style houses. If not for the unfortunate circumstances this may have been a very pleasant walk. You sighed, choosing to ignore your surroundings in an attempt to abate the irrational fear. 

As soon as you got home you would pause from your chaotic thoughts, take a soothing bath, change into something comfortable and order that pizza. Over your lonely dinner these feelings would eventually rationalize themselves into reality and everything would go about as it normally did. The town remaining cautious of the copycat hellbent on taking the title of the " _Candyman Killer_ " for himself before being found by the police and answering to the judges gavel. Sentenced to death with no mercy. His victims, alive and well... breathing. 

_Nope. Still not working._

Hurriedly, you broke out into a light jog, spotting the parking lot and the playground on the opposite side of a wide field come into view. Long dark shadows cast along the ground near the empty trail head. Sharply contrasted against the streetlights that flooded that area with illumination.  The smell of wet earth rose from the ground as the storm crackled ahead rushing you along. Fading deeper until the gloom of the forest path swallowed you whole. Each foot fall growing faster and fleeting with each growing second. Not a moment passing without that ever growing paranoia hissing in the back of your mind.

_What was that?_

_Who's there?_

_Where is he?_

Almost as if a switch were flicked, the negative thoughts disappeared. "The final stretch." You said to no one in particular, noting the glow of your backyard floodlight spilling through the swathe of trees. A smirk tugged at your lips. Here was the final divide between you and sweet relief. An end to the pervasive fearfulness wrecking havoc on your mind.  Eager stride breaking you out of the forest and into the clearing of your backyard. Refreshing lights nearly blinding your eyes. But oh, how much of a relief that obnoxious glare was. 

Making short work of the distance you came to the porch, opened the glass door and pushed inwards. Yet instead of spilling inside to the den you made contact with the solid oak door. _'Locked? Whatever.. I'll just grab my ke-'_  

_Keys? **Keys!?**_ Completely forgetting to grab them this morning, you face-palmed and yelled out into the night, "Dammit!" The door stood rigid against your attempts at breaking into your own home. Silently, you prayed the eavesdropping neighbors wouldn't call the police even though that wasn't likely. Growing used to the consistency of you forgetting your keys. 

_'Please let the front door be open.'_

It was a cute thought to think that something might consider going in your favor today. Hoping for the benefit of positivity, you hung a left following the pathway up and around the old two-story household, tracing your hand along the slick wall. Meeting you round the corner was the yard lit by an unexpected source filtering through one of the second story windows.

Situations like this would've been easy enough to write off in the case of a family member being home. Phillip, the irresponsible pre-teen he was, inherited the trait of never turning off any of the games in his room. Allowing the poor electricity bill to rocket into oblivion. Ryan, his father and bestower of said trait, was no better and often kept the living room TV on at all hours of the day and night. Whether it be re-runs of Forensic Files, two-hour documentaries covering the early life of Ed Gein or other murder-porn related series, it was incessant. 

Shielding your face against the specks of persisting rain, you paused to look at the window realizing that the light was infact blaring directly from your room,  _'I.. didn't leave anything on. Did I?'_

Much to your delight you found the door unlocked as it opened without a hitch. Perfect! This night was just about to start improving. Flicking on the hallway light and peeling off the drenched hoodie, you entered the adjacent laundry room and tossed it into the hamper. Next was taking that hot shower you especially needed after marching halfway across town in the pouring rain and nearly catching pneumonia. 

Climbing the stairs in record time, you went to get a pair of dry clothes to change into from your bedroom. However, the blaring light glowing from beneath the door stopped you in your tracks. Now that you had a moment to retrace your thoughts you couldn't recall ever having turned on your television in the first place. Or turning it to the news channel above all others.

Wait.. _what?_

Deciding to face your fate whatever lie inside, you raised your hand to grab the knob and swung the door open. Unveiling something you honestly hadn't expected. Literally nothing. 

_Barren, devoid, unoccupied._ Breathing a sigh of relief, it was truly a surprise. You were sure someone had been in here. Prowling behind the door as if a lion sizing up their prey before the kill. Not that you were disappointed with the lack of undesirable company. 

Stepping inside, you went about your business. Turning the television off, grabbing a clean pair of clothing to replace the soaked ones and plugging in your nearly dead phone on the nightstand. This paranoia seriously had to go. It was ruining what restfulness you were supposed to be having right now. 

Making your way back to the main level of the house and down the hallway, you passed the living room. Out of curiosity and force of habit, you turned your head to inspect what show was droning on in the background. Occasionally a program catching your attention. Especially the scene-reenactments they would play shortly after showing a brief clip of the victim describing what happened. Those always made you laugh. 

For a short time you stopped and stared at the screen, preoccupied with the dramatization of an older lady falling on the floor. She lay there sprawled, melodramatically holding her hands above her head as a man entered the scene, dressed like he came straight outta' Compton, yo! _'Help, I've fallen and can't get up!'_ came to mind, causing you to chuckle in unison with-

_What the fuck **?**_

The room froze, as did the show which was now paused by whoever else was in the room. Scanning the darkness of the room, you just barely noticed the silhouette of a person outlined by the glow of the flickering TV sitting on the far end of the sectional. Feet working in overdrive, you went to move but a puff of black smoke appeared to your right. Blocking any chance of escape, cornering you in an awkward section of the hallway.

**"It's Jacky!"**

Standing slouched like a ragdoll, the clowns arms outstretched gleefully towards you, snaking out and wrapping you in their grasp like tendrils. Each monochrome arm squeezing, pulling you closer to the ever smiling face of the intruder. The one with the toothy grin, wild milky eyes and ragged voice laced with that of an old-fashioned British accent. 

You wanted to scream, cry, break away... but chose to remain silent in frozen terror. 

Apart of you wanted this to just be a sickening prank done by your friends. Something twisted your step-brother had concocted just to be a little shit. Revenge for the jokes and the times you'd been unjust to him or them. Going so far as to recreate the exact outfit out of the poorly drawn pictures you'd doodled as a kid of you, LJ and- 

**_"Augh!"_ **

It felt as if your head was encountering an error it couldn't fix, your memories fuzzing and flickering like an old-timey picture reel running out of film. 

The clown chuckled darkly, staring at you with his haunting pin-pricks, "Long time no see, sugar cube. Miss me?", For an uncomfortably long minute he stood in silence. Cocking his head occasionally like a confused puppy. God, you just wanted to shrivel up and die.

" _Mm,_ cat got your tongue then", LJ remarked, his arms stretching around your body until he found his hands in the black and white entanglement of limbs. Carefully the clown sifted through his comically large sleeves, humming that god-forsaken song to himself, " _Hmm, hmm,_ now where did I put those? ... _Ah-hah_!"

Some would say curiosity killed the cat, but in this case it just literally might as you watched LJ pull out a pair of rusted-to-death scissors stained with years worth of gunk and blood seemingly out of thin air. A smirk of self-satisfaction found its way to his face as he pulled you closer. The right hand carefully working the scissors, the other prying your mouth open and pulling your tongue as far as it would go. Playfully the clown snipped them in front of your tongue and giggled. A knot swelled within your stomach, heart dropping at the sight. 

 Prior to this year, you had thought things would finally go the way they were meant to be. Life would finally become something similar to normalcy. Instead of living in fear and treating every other night as if it were your last, you could work on school, your job, your friends. Your life. Laughing Jack had become surprisingly absent in your scheduled "play sessions". The maniacal ghost that stalked you suddenly vanishing from your life entirely. For a long time you pondered why he left so abruptly, without warning. Maybe he'd grown bored? 

Despite what his thoughts had been before tonight, they no longer mattered as he was here in the flesh. Flashing rusted scissors at you as some form of fucked punishment for not addressing him when he spoke. As if you two were just old friends catching up after years apart.

"My my, someone's lost their spark while I was away", Meeting his wicked gaze with your paranoid one, he looked at you with a smile that slowly faltered, "Boring!" 

"You've got a pulse, don't you?", He yanked the scissors closer and pinched your tongue with his claws, drawing blood causing you to cringe in pain, "Let's play a game. For old time's sake!" 

You looked at him, shaking your head, clearly not wanting to play whatever game that involved cutting your tongue out.

"Calling it quits already. Tough luck. You haven't even heard the rules", LJ tapped his chin thoughtfully with the scissors, "Answer me this pun in 10 seconds and you get to keep waggling your little tongue. If not, well. Cat won't have your tongue, I will." He said giggling, putting the scissors up to your tongue. 

"This one used to get you every time as a kid, sugar cube.  How does the lion greet the other animals?"


End file.
